Congratulations, Gentlemen
by Qrimson
Summary: In the '60s, four charismatic kids took Britain by storm. At Hogwarts in the '70s, another Fab Four starts their first steps toward infamy — if, of course, they can actually manage to make friends with each other. A Marauders origin story, loosely influenced by the Beatles' "Please Please Me." Semi-canon compliant. Crossposted on AO3.
1. I Saw Her Standing There

The girl with the green eyes was already at the door of the compartment before James Potter even heard her approach. "Excuse me," she said, knocking on the window pane. "Is anyone sitting with you?"

James had never been so grateful to say no to anyone.

"Good," the girl said, sliding the door half-closed behind her. "Don't talk to me."

Oh.

James followed her command without even thinking about it, staring dumbfounded as she shuffled into the seat opposite him and curled up in the corner, looking out the window at the English countryside as it flew by.

This was not the arrangement James had expected, to put it mildly. He'd known that he would probably end up sitting next to strangers on the train — most of the kids in Godric's Hollow were younger, and he wasn't friendly with any of the others, first-year or otherwise. So after he said goodbye to his mum and dad, he'd just picked a carriage at random and decided that it made the most sense to just see who showed up.

Well, this girl had showed up. But surprise: She was boring and sad. Congratulations, James, you've won the jackpot.

Except…She wasn't boring, not really. Something about her made James want to speak anyway, make her tell him why she was so upset. And that didn't really make sense to him.

Out of nowhere, she turned to look back at him, bright green eyes locked onto his own hazel ones. He'd never really noticed a girl's eyes before. They were bloodshot, crimson lines ricocheting out from the verdant irises. Yet for all that…

She looked away again.

James shifted anxiously. He was not going to last until they got to Hogwarts in silence. He was a very chatty person. He knew this about himself because he had determined that he was much more self-aware than the other 11-year-olds in Godric's Hollow. And his mother explicitly said that to him whenever he was bothering her.

A boy burst in, rude and noisy where the girl had been rude and quiet. "Hey, is it fine if I stay here a bit?"

The girl looked back out the window when he started speaking, so James took it upon himself to answer. "Sure, I guess. Sit by me though. She wants some privacy."

"Oh," the boy said, looking at her like she was a frog on display. "Alright then."

He sat down next to James, seats squeaking in complaint as he unexpectedly crashed into them. His hair was as black as James's, but cut short and close to the scalp. Significantly less messy than his own mop. He was a bit tall for his age, but slightly gangly — James suspected the boy was in the midst of quite a growth spurt.

"Nice to meet you," he said, extending his hand. "I'm Sirius. Sirius Black."

"Pleasure," James replied. "I'm James Potter. You been running around the train since we set out from King's Cross?"

"Oh, Merlin, no," Sirius said. "My mates a few compartments up are driving me mental. Figured I'd see if I could get some better company. Looks like I got it half right."

The girl didn't seem to respond to Sirius's near-insult.

"You're one of the Blacks, right?" James didn't really mean to do this — the whole bloodline measuring thing. But old habits died hard. His parents were always big talkers about Muggleborn equality around the house, but whenever they ended up at dinner parties in Godric's Hallow, it was the same names around the table. Potter. Mulciber. Rowle. Macmillan. Fudge. James felt like he actually remembered encountering a excitable middle-aged man with the surname Black at one of the Mulcibers' holiday parties — maybe the one where Seth tried to jinx his stockings?

Sirius made a face somewhere between a proud smile and a grimace. "Of course," he said. "Heir to the whole business too, unless there's some cousin somewhere we don't know about. Don't remind my cousin Narcissa if you bump into her in passing; she's terribly ill-tempered about it. Which is quite stupid since she's the youngest Black girl anyway, but what do I know?"

"I think I've got a distant cousin who's technically a Black? His name's Edwin…Edwin Potter, of course, but his mum, Dorea, was originally a Black."

"Yeah, that sounds right," Sirius said. "I've got a great-aunt named Dorea, but we've never met. They live on the Continent somewhere now."

"I hope Edwin went with," James said. "He came to Christmas one year. 10, 15 years older than me, but he was an idiot. Got in a fight with me because I wouldn't agree Royston Idlewind deserved to be sacked for his play during the World Cup. I was six."

They both chuckled a little at that. Then a hush fell over the train car, all three children wandering within their own minds.

Sirius was the first to break the silence. "So…it's okay if I say all this pureblood posturing is bollocks, right?"

James was so surprised he burst out laughing, nearly falling out of his seat. Sirius joined in a moment later, both of them heedless of the girl on the other side of the carriage.

"Merlin's beard, I'm so glad you said something," James finally wheezed. "I mean, I'm proud to be a part of my family—"

"Oh, of course," Sirius gasped, "me too."

"But I live in Godric's Hollow, and we go to these other people's homes, and there's practically shrines! To a name! We live next door to some Abbotts, and their daughter Delia — she's a second-year — she showed me this book they had, tracing their family history all the way back to practically the Stone Age. Because, you see, 'some of the Abbotts were not so particular, so it was important to know who the real pure-blood Abbotts were.'"

Sirius laughed at that too, holding his side. "If you think a book is ridiculous, you should come visit me in London sometime. My parents have a tapestry."

"They do not."

"Swear to die," Sirius replied, raising his right arm with an expression of mock severity on his face. "Full family tree, going back eight, nine generations maybe? And you haven't even heard the best part. My mother's taken to burning off the blood traitors, just to keep the tapestry pure too!"

That sent James and Sirius both into another fit of giggles. But just when James was starting to catch his breath again, a boy burst into their compartment without a word of introduction. He was already wearing his school robes, a fitting complement to his greasy and stringy black hair.

"I don't want to talk to you." The girl in their compartment had finally come out of her shell — clearly, she already knew this strange boy. Most likely, he was the cause of the tears James could now see reforming in her eyes.

James couldn't hear the boy's response though, and Sirius was talking again.

"So, what's it like out in the country? You must know more wizards who aren't related to you. My parents practically never invite anyone over."

"Yeah, I guess." James really wanted Sirius to shut up and let him listen better to the other two first-years in the compartment with them. But between the monosyllabic answers he provided to Sirius, all he could pick up was something about a letter Dumbledore sent her. Or her sister?

Sirius stopped talking for a moment, and James managed to finally pick up a full sentence. "You'd better be in Slytherin," the greasy boy said, seemingly trying to cheer his companion up.

"Slytherin?" James said, almost surprising himself by speaking up. "Who wants to be in Slytherin? I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

James could feel Sirius's whole body shift beside him. The boy was looking at him with the strangest stony face. "My whole family has been in Slytherin."

"Blimey," James said faintly. He hadn't known that about the Blacks, though it seemed obvious on second guess. "And I thought you seemed all right."

Something about his reply made Sirius smile. "Maybe I'll break the tradition," he said, his tone of voice suggesting such a thing was extremely unlikely. The girl and greaseball opposite them were strangely silent as James and Sirius continued to speak. "Where are you heading, if you've got the choice?"

James grinned, lifting an invisible sword. "Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart! Like my dad."

The greasy-haired boy gave a snort, and James whipped his head around to glare at him. "Got a problem with that?"

"No," the boy responded with a sneer, "if you'd rather be brawny than brainy."

James's face flushed. He had half a mind to prove this kid's point by beating him into a pulp — but Sirius delivered his own sort of punch first. "Where're you hoping to go," he said, contemptuously, "seeing as how you're neither?"

James practically fell off the bench, laughing uncontrollably and turning in to face the corner of the compartment slightly. He liked this Sirius Black.

The opinion was not shared by their fellow traveler in the compartment. The girl leapt to her feet, furiously squinting at both him and Sirius. "Come on, Severus, let's find another compartment."

"Ooh, yes, let's." Sirius did a surprisingly passable parody of the girl's voice, and James laughed again, though a bit more half-heartedly this time. The girl just blushed, and then scurried out of the apartment, head down, with Severus getting to his feet to follow her.

As he started to walk toward the door, a thought occurred to James. This kid was so out of it, he probably would barely notice if James slid the compartment door shut — but what he definitely wouldn't notice was if James stuck his foot out just so to trip him—

And then he thought of that girl's eyes, filled with tears.

He left his feet where they were, and Severus moved past him with an unhindered step.

"See ya, Snivellus!" Sirius shouted. He was getting up now, moving to take a seat opposite James. "See, now this is nice," he said, stretching out. "Now there's no one left to bother us in this compartment."

Sirius had spoken too soon. A scrawny boy poked his head through the door, and James recognized him instantly: Seth Mulciber, one of the boys he'd known in Godric's Hollow. Their fathers were friends of a sort — all sorts of pureblood connections, formed over years of socializing — which meant that James and Seth had been forced to play together numerous times over the years. Neither had enjoyed it.

"Thought I heard your voice, Sirius," Seth was saying. "See you found the scum of the class already."

James realized with a jolt that Seth and Sirius already seemed to know each other too — fairly well, from the sound of it.

"Hey Seth," Sirius said. He didn't sound especially happy to see the other boy, but the sneering tone he'd used to address Severus was suddenly absent. "Done testing your luck with fifth-years, I see?"

"Oh, come on, Sirius," Seth replied. "All I said was that they ought to be ashamed of themselves, having such blood traitors for parents. If they were decent, they'd have agreed with us, same as you or I would if our parents turned out to be rotten."

"Your parents are rotten, and so are you." James wasn't just going to sit here and be ignored. He got to his feet and stared down Seth, even though he could see his righthand boy Ignatius Avery — thick in both brains and brawn — lurking further down the corridor, a pair of small trunks with both their names on them at his feet. "Why don't you get back where you came from?"

"Well, admittedly, it is a bit like Sirius said," Seth said. "There are a bunch of pissed-off Muggle-lovers back at the front of the train, and we thought we might see where he wandered off to. Nice of him to find us an empty compartment for us."

"This compartment isn't empty," James replied. "I'm here."

"For now." Seth pulled his wand out from within his black robes, and James instinctively followed suit, drawing his mahogany wand and holding it warily at his side.

"Watch it, Mulciber."

"What are you going to do, Potter, sprout flowers around my feet? I can't imagine your goody-two-shoes of a father letting you learn a simple jinx, much less something that might actually hurt me."

James's knuckles tightened around his wand. True, he didn't know much, but he could do something to Seth, at least. The problem was in what Seth might do back.

"So much congestion, there's nowhere to get my trolley through!"

An elderly witch was suddenly there beside Seth, practically pushing her cart of sweets into his side. "Boys, move along, unless you're looking to buy."

"Love to," Seth said with a sneer. James noticed his wand was suddenly gone. "Come on, Potter, back out into the hall with the nice lady."

Sirius was notably silent behind him, and James decided to press his luck. "We were here first, Mulciber. Maybe Sirius and I should stick around and you should find somewhere else to go."

"I don't think we want to do that," Seth replied. "Do we, Sirius?"

"Um," Sirius stammered. "Yeah, I guess this compartment is nice. So sure, you can come in."

Oh, he was born for Slytherin alright. Blood boiling, James turned slightly to glare at Sirius before shouting at Seth again. "Look, whatever, I don't care where you all sit. But my stuff is here, and I'm not moving it."

"Come on, boys," the trolley witch interjected, a menacing tone in her voice. "I don't have all afternoon."

"Why don't you all come over here?"

A new voice entered the fight, coming from behind Seth. A shaggy-haired boy with a pale complexion was across the way, a small trunk in his hand. "My compartment's empty, aside from me. You all come over here and I'll just come across the way."

Seth nodded with approval, and Ignatius snuck past him to carry the trunks into the other chamber. "Works for me. C'mon, Sirius. Let's leave this traitor with his new friend."

Sirius moved past James without a word, and the other student crossed back into James's compartment a moment later. The trolley witch moved past all of them with a sniff and an upturned nose, and began pointedly asking the students a row ahead if they wanted snacks. Across the way, the compartment door slammed behind Sirius with a snap.

"Sorry about all that," James said, finally having the grace to become embarrassed. "You didn't have to give up your seat for me."

"Not a problem," said the other boy, inadvertently taking Sirius's seat. "I was originally with a couple of sixth-years who went to the back of the train to neck. I figured it would be nice to have company."

"What a coincidence. I was just thinking it would be nice to have some new company." James extended his hand. Third time's the charm, he supposed. "I'm James Potter."

"Hello, James," the other boy said. "I'm Remus."

* * *

James ended up chatting with Remus the entire journey to Hogwarts, the afternoon flying by. For all his protestations that he wasn't used to having friends, Remus seemed as cool as anyone else he knew in Godric's Hollow, even if he was prone to moody looks out the window when there was a momentary lull in the conversation. In some ways, he might actually have been an improvement — James often found the other boys in the village tediously snobby, especially after they'd spent a year away at Hogwarts.

A giant of a man had ordered them down a path toward a small fleet of boats, and James and Remus boarded with a pair of girls, one a black girl with a pair of silvery glasses that sparkled in the moonlight and the other decidedly Welsh, if that thick accent was any indication. As the four of them took their seats, the boat leapt forward under its own power, accompanied by the girls' giggles.

"It'll still take me a while to get used to all this," Remus said, staring around at all the other boats.

James turned to look at him oddly. "I thought you said only your mum was a Muggle."

"Oh, yeah," Remus said. "My dad's a wizard. He just…doesn't do much magic around the house. There's too many Muggles about."

There were three, four times as many Muggle families in Godric's Hollow as wizarding ones, and James's father still levitated the furniture around every three weeks to make it easier for the house elves to dust. But he didn't press it.

"Well, don't get so distracted by the boats you forget to get a good look at the castle as we come around the lake," James said. "My dad told me that's the best part of the trip."

No sooner had James said that when the cliffside ahead seemed to fall away, revealing Hogwarts itself: a massive, looming series of towers and parapets, all lit up in celebration. The girls stopped talking immediately, each gasping, and a big grin crept across Remus's face.

"I always hoped I'd see this," Remus said, seeming lost in his thoughts. "It's so beautiful."

"My older sister says there's 777 windows in Hogwarts," the Welsh girl said from behind them. "And there's a light burning in all of them on the first night of the term."

"I think there must have been only 776 originally," James said with a smile. "Back in '23 when my mum graduated, she and her friends accidentally blew out part of the wall in the Gryffindor common room celebrating and had to transfigure some broken wine bottles into a new window."

Remus and the girls looked at him oddly. "Wait, your mum graduated from Hogwarts in 1923?" Remus finally said. "Mate … why aren't you old?"

James laughed at the unexpected question; for all the complaining he did about his parents' age, he forgot about it at the strangest times. "It's my parents who are the old ones. My dad always says I ruined his retirement when he's in a lousy mood. They're both in their 60s now."

Remus whistled softly. "Well, that's certainly impressive. I'm an only child too. I think my parents wanted to have more kids later on once they were a bit more settled, but … well, it just never happened."

There was something sad in Remus's tone, and the conversation trailed off shortly after that. James found his mind drifting ahead to the feast later tonight, when they'd all be sorted. It occurred to him that some of his fellow first-years were probably a lot more nervous — the Muggle-borns, especially, but some of the half-bloods too no doubt. Having a long Gryffindor tradition in the family went a long way toward calming his nerves.

A few minutes later, the boats all docked, and the bearded giant led the whole mess of them up toward the school proper. They filed into the Entrance Hall in an erratic two-by-two formation, but to a one they scattered throughout the ornately decorated chamber as soon as they were past the first set of double doors.

"All right, everyone in," the man said as he shut the doors behind them. "Stay here and try not t' get into any trouble. Deputy headmistress'll be along presently t' collect ya." And then he slipped out through a side door — one it seemed impossible for him to fit through — and was gone, leaving the 50-odd students to mingle in the hall.

Remus and James had stuck together, staking out one edge of a stone column far away from Sirius and Seth, but both of them were too nervous to say much. Instead, James found himself absent-mindedly scanning the 11-year-old faces in the crowd around them, realizing slowly that he was looking for the crying girl from the train.

He finally found her, sitting on the marble staircase at the front of the hall, talking to her friend the greaseball. He hadn't cleaned up since James saw them last, but she had. Jumping for joy looked a stretch, but there was a smile on her face as she spoke to Severus. As James watched, the other boy muttered something inaudible, with a flick of his eyes across the crowd. She laughed in response, a distinctive, sharp sound that sliced through the noise of the room.

He wouldn't understand why the sound of that laugh seemed to echo in his heart for many years.

"Attention all students!"

The stern voice jarred him, and he spun about in sync with the half-dozen other first-years idly musing on the castle. In front of the doors to the Great Hall was a woman, black hair pulled back with a severity that marked her definitively as a professor. Not a hair was out of place, as far as James could see, and the strictness of her appearance was lessened only by the incongruity of her dress robes: green and blue tartan, a pattern that was perhaps her only concession that she was not in truth the 60-year-old woman her demeanor implied.

"That's got to be McGonagall," Remus said, whispering into James' ear. "My dad always tells me about the time she threatened to turn him into a candlestick for charming a piece of chalk to write obscenities on the blackboard."

"Can't be," James hissed back. "I know wizards age slow, but there's no way that professor is as old as she dresses."

"Oh, she wasn't his professor," Remus replied. "She was a first-year who caught him doing it while she was on her way to class. Apparently she tried to follow through but —"

"Silence!" Whatever McGonagall had done decades ago, the present-day professor would have none of it tonight. The whole group fell silent immediately, Remus and Sirius included.

McGonagall pursed her lips and surveyed the group. "Thank you. In a few moments, I will lead you into the Great Hall. From there, you will be sorted into houses. While you remain at Hogwarts, your house will become your surrogate family. Each has their own private domain within the castle, where you will sleep, study and socialize. You will eat meals with your house, attend classes with them and — depending on your actions over the course of the year — succeed or fail with them.

"There are four houses: Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. Do not fret too much about which you will be placed in. Talented witches and wizards have come from each. But so too have foolish and arrogant ones, who see in their selection of house more license for pride than is merited.

"Now, take a moment to make yourselves presentable. Then we'll enter the hall." McGonagall took a moment to survey the mass of children in front of her — eyeballing a few of the more disheveled a bit longer than the others — and then slipped back into the Great Hall.

"Boy, she's something else," James said to Remus. "Are all the teachers like that here?"

"I certainly hope not. Do my robes look halfway decent?"

"Yeah, they're fine. How does my hair look? I can never get it to lay down right."

Remus gave him a pitying look. He'd seen that before. Usually from his mother.

James was still feebly trying to smooth it out when McGonagall returned. "All right, students, inside now. The ceremony is about to begin."

Filing into line behind Remus, James anxiously moved forward, into the Great Hall. It was more than he'd expected. Much more. The majesty of it brushed a smile across his face, growing wider as he examined each of the gilded curlicues and sculptures upon the wall. Ahead were four long tables that stretched from one end of the hall to the other, packed with hundreds of students. A shorter table at the head, with a group of adults who must have been the professors, had an open seat just to the left of center…McGonagall's, perhaps.

All this was lit by an innumerable array of candles hovering over the room, suspended by magic. As James gaped at them, he saw a set of candles floating above one table change color from white to blue, the flame turning an unnatural silver. For the students already seated, this was a new and delightful development, especially once the others began to shift too, turning red, yellow, and green. James was already looking past the candles, into the depths of an endless ceiling of stars, with the almost-full moon obscured by clouds.

James looked ahead at Remus, who was looking up at the magical sky-roof too. His face seemed pale in the shifting light, and he muttered something James couldn't hear as he looked away hastily.

"What's wrong?" he asked, nudging Remus slightly with his knuckles.

"Nothing," Remus replied, only shifting his gaze slightly from the floor. "I hope you're in the same house as me," he said suddenly, as if it had just popped into his head.

So that was what he was upset about. "Don't worry about it. You seem cool. Of course you'll end up in Gryffindor with me."

That got Remus to turn almost all the way around, though he stumbled a bit in the process. "What do you mean? How do you know what house you're going to be in?"

"I mean, I don't technically," James said smoothly. "But it feels obvious. My family has been in Gryffindor for generations. My father thinks our family line might even go back to Godric Gryffindor himself."

That didn't seem to comfort Remus as much as James had thought it would… but they didn't have much time left to reflect on it. They had reached the end of the hall, and McGonagall had begun directing them to spread out in front of the teacher's table, turning to face the four houses. Once they were all settled, she stepped in front of them, holding a four-legged stool, and placed it squarely in front of the first-years.

"What do we do now?" Remus asked, voice wavery.

"I don't know," James admitted. "My parents wouldn't tell me anything about the Sorting. Thought it would 'ruin the surprise.'"

McGonagall withdrew her wand from within her plaid robes with a flourish, pointing it toward a cupboard across the hall. It opened with a bang, revealing a lumpy, heavily-patched hat, which floated toward the group. James expected it to land on her head, but instead she steered it right to the top of the stool.

Silence fell in the room, sustained by the anticipation of the older students and the anxiety of James and his companions. Then, a stitch on the hat split open. In an instant, James saw the contours of a face form within the folds and tears of the hat. And then it took a deep breath and began to sing.

"When I was younger,

So much younger than today,

I donned the head of Gryffindor

From dawn to dusk each day.

And so it was I witnessed

A joining oh so rare

Of wizards strong and cunning

And witches good and fair.

'Twas four of them who gathered

To formally agree

To make a school for children

Of a magic pedigree

Ravenclaw was first to speak

As first was her idea,

'We need a place for knowledge,

Where learning can be free.'

'It cannot hold just knowledge,'

Said cheery Hufflepuff

'For without moral guidance

Pure learning's not enough.'

'But who are we to say

What is just and what is vile?'

Asked Slytherin the crafty

With a hidden ounce of guile.

Their plans seem doomed to failure

'Til Gryffindor suggested,

'Why not divide our school in fourths

And each apply our method?

Fair Ravenclaw shall govern those

Who bring a gifted mind

Good Hufflepuff shall mother all

Those children just and kind

Sly Slytherin should take on those

Who share his crafty tongue

And I shall take the valiant on,

The bravest of the young.'

And so their pact was made at last,

Each getting what they'd wished,

And Hogwarts soon did come to be

And since then has flourished.

The founders now have long been dead,

But magic still lives on,

So set me down upon your head;

I'll say where you belong."

James was so stunned he could only blink, but the Great Hall erupted into applause around him, with many first-years reflexively joining in. In front of them, the Sorting Hat was bowing, soaking in the adulation.

"So we just put the hat on?" Remus asked.

"I guess so," James whispered back. A line from the song came back to him again, suddenly. "Did you hear that, about Gryffindor? The valiant!"

"Yeah, sounds great, James." Remus was staring at the hat blankly now. "But what if you're not in Gryffindor?"

James opened his mouth in confusion, ready to defend his very honor at the suggestion, but McGonagall beat him to it. "When I call your name," she said, unrolling a long sheet of parchment, "please step forward and take a seat on the stool, placing the Sorting Hat on your head as you do."

There was no time left for uncertainty, James thought. Only the moments before Gryffindor. "Here we go," he said, toes tapping eagerly inside his boots.

McGonagall scanned the list a moment, then looked up and shouted the first name: "Avery, Ignatius!"

Avery stepped forward hesitantly. It took effort for James not to scoff aloud at the moron's poor luck. Even if he hadn't been first to go, Avery was so thick he probably still wouldn't have known what to do. Slowly, he walked up to the stool and picked up the hat, sitting down and looking at it for a moment. James saw a flash of irritation on McGonagall's face, but before she could tell him, Avery put the pieces together and set it atop his head.

"SLYTHERIN!"

The shout from the hat was so quick, Avery nearly fell off his seat. The Slytherin table erupted into cheers as McGonagall took the hat from him — Avery seemed too befuddled to do it himself — and nudged him in the direction of the Slytherin table, farthest on the left.

As the clapping died down, she read another name: "Bagman, Otto!"

The boy, a pudgy youth with messy brown hair, took his seat in turn. "RAVENCLAW!" The table beside the Slytherins began to cheer now, welcoming Otto with handshakes and smiles.

"Barker, Basil!"

"RAVENCLAW!" The silver-and-blue table cheered again, beckoning Basil to join them.

"Bellicose, Beatrix!"

"GRYFFINDOR!" This was the far right table now, bursting into the loudest cheers yet.

"That's where we're going," James whispered. "The loud and the proud."

"Hopefully." James could see Remus shifting with every word the two of them exchanged. There were other students whispering too, though, so James pressed on.

"Come on, Remus," he said. "There aren't surprises here. You're a good guy; not bookish, not boring. Where else would you be but Gryffindor?"

"Black, Sirius!"

"Watch," James said, nodding at Sirius as he sat on the stool. "His whole family's been in Slytherin. Pureblood too. Going back generations."

"My dad has a saying about stuff like that." The Sorting Hat was slow on this one for some reason, so Remus had to whisper even softer as the hall waited for its obvious verdict. "'The only thing I know will happen is the thing I'm not expecting.'"

James pursed his lips at that. Not a particularly wizardly sentiment. He looked back at Sirius, who looked incredibly uncomfortable under that hat. "What's taking so long?" he said, almost forgetting to be quiet. "Is Black so Slytherin he broke the hat? You'd think that this would be an easy—"

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Applause came again from the Gryffindor table, but only from about a third of the students there. The rest, like James, were picking up their jaws. The awkward silence lasted only a moment — then their cheers were even louder than before. A pair of tall, red-haired boys even went so far as to stand up and clap, although their gesture seemed aimed more at the murderously silent Slytherin table than anything. James couldn't see a single one of them moving.

"Told you so," Remus said, somehow looking more and less worried all at once.

"Broadmour, Maggie" was already putting the Sorting Hat on her head, but James had lost all focus. He turned to look at Remus, trusting in the cheers of excited Hufflepuffs to drown out his voice. "Just because some random pureblood bucks the trend doesn't mean I'm going to."

"No, but—"

McGonagall's head shifted toward them just slightly. "Burbage. Charity."

The boys were quiet through her sorting into Ravenclaw, and the successive trip of "Campbell, Rory" into Hufflepuff. Then Remus bucked up the courage to whisper the rest of his sentence as the hat dawdled over "Catchlove, Greta," a short girl with blonde hair whose feet swung anxiously as she waited. "I'm just saying, it can't just be family that determines where you end up here. Otherwise, you and your friend Sirius would already be sitting on opposite sides of this hall, and it'd only be me and the other poor kids standing at the front of the class."

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

James pointedly looked away from Remus, hands moving automatically to clap quietly. He kept going a beat longer than everyone else, catching himself just in time to more effectively feign interest in "Chang, Mei."

But his mind was far from Hogwarts. He wasn't some pureblood radical, like Mulciber and his kind. His parents hadn't raised him to believe he was better than others, just for having a name you could find in history books. But the Potter name was important. It was important to them, and it was important to him, and one of the important things about being a Potter is that you were a Gryffindor. A Potter who wasn't in Gryffindor… What if he was the first person in generations to screw this up?

Suddenly, James realized the girl on the stool in front of him was the one from the train. Bloody hell, he had missed her name!

"Remus," he said quickly, "what was her name?"

"Didn't catch it. Why?"

"GRYFFINDOR!"

James didn't reply as the cheers welled up, drowning out anything he might have said. The girl whipped the Sorting Hat off her head with a grin and hurried down to the Gryffindor table — though James caught her looking back with a glimmer of sadness. He watched as she approached Sirius, then seemed to change her mind and sit between a pair of older girls.

Whoever she was, she was in Gryffindor now. All that was left was to wait, and hope, and pray.

Antsy, he waited through the next dozen or so students. There were no more Gryffindors for a long while, the F's, G's, J's and K's of Hogwarts divided evenly among the other three houses. James recognized only a few. The Greengrasses had been among the first investors in Sleekeazy's, and James remembered "Greengrass, Emory," a Slytherin, as a sulky, ill-tempered boy who had broken his mother's china cabinet in a fit of wizardly temper as a child. And "Gudgeon, Davy," sent to Hufflepuff, was a distant cousin from Scotland he'd visited on vacation three years ago, who'd shockingly managed to lose what looked like two stone since then.

"Lewis, Jack" finally broke the streak, going to Gryffindor, and then…

"Lupin, Remus!"

"Good luck," James whispered quickly to his new friend.

But Remus just smiled back. "With what?" Somehow more confident than James now, he strode forward, swept the hat off the stool and then, in one fluid motion, both sat down and set the hat on his head.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The hat's reaction wasn't quite instantaneous — but certainly fast enough to take James by surprise. For all Remus's worrying, James had expected his sorting to be a long one. But there he was, waving at James and practically running down the hall to the Gryffindor table. He seamlessly blended into the ongoing celebration over Jack Lewis, and sat down next to him and across from Sirius. To James's surprise, he reached across the table right away, shaking the pureblood's hand with vigor.

Now there was nothing left but to wait for his turn. "MacDonald, Mary" joined Remus at the Gryffindor table immediately. The boy next to him, "Mirza, Nabin," would go to Gryffindor as well, and "Mulciber, Seth," was the fastest Slytherin called yet. He stalked over to the far left table, glaring at Sirius with disgust before sitting beside a visibly pleased Avery. His poor minion appeared to have developed separation anxiety over the course of the evening.

"Peasegood, Arnold" was where the worrying really started. As the hat pondered Arnold's placement — "HUFFLEPUFF!" — James realized that he didn't really know anyone else in the group. At least not anyone else whose name might be before his. So he flinched at "Pepper, Octavius." Twitched through all five and a half minutes of "Pettigrew, Peter." Full-on heart attack for "Ponter, Roddy."

"Potter, James!"

Finally. Conscious of every eye on him, he walked slowly over to the stool, gingerly took up the hat as he sat down, and placed it on his head.

And waited.

"This is all very interesting,"

The voice seemed to come from inside his head. With a shiver, James realized it was the Sorting Hat itself, talking to him. Or thinking at him?

"Both, sort of." The Hat was reading his thoughts. "You're remarkably stunned by this for someone from such a strong pureblood line. But I do remember both your parents having a mischievous bent so I suspect that explains it."

James was too stunned to even think up a retort, and the Hat thought-talked on unheedingly. "You've got a great deal of ambition, that stands out right away. And you're loyal to those you care for…to a fault, I would say. And you're smart — not just book smart, but real smart. The kind of brains that a Ravenclaw would be proud to have. You'd fit well there, or in Hufflepuff, or in Slytherin…"

But what about Gryffindor?

"Yes, what about Gryffindor?" the Hat replied immediately. "Of course you'd fit there. You've been practically bred to be there. But it's not the only path for you, despite what you're thinking. The Hogwarts houses aren't really that different. At least they're not supposed to be. What you do once you're in a house is much more important than which one we choose for you to join."

"Choose?" James muttered under his breath. The choice is mine?

"Of course. Everyone in this room chose their house, in one way or another. Most people don't realize it. But I think you need to know — so you make the right choice.

"You're the rarest of the students I sort, James. Most 11-year-olds, they're between two houses. Maybe three. But despite what you think about yourself, you'd thrive anywhere. For you, it's about what you're willing to give up.

"Go to Slytherin, and that ambition will flourish. You'll be one of the greatest wizards of your age — but never trusted and rarely loved. Ravenclaw, and your intelligence will be cultivated strategically, making you wise but unworldly. In Hufflepuff, you'll get all the friends and love you crave, but you'll always wonder whether another house might have been better for you."

"What about Gryffindor?"

"There you get the best of everything," responded the Hat. "And the worst as well. Because all of your strengths will flourish — your ambitions, your loyalty, and your mind. But it won't be easy. It's hard to be ambitious and stay loyal to your friends. And it's hard to apply the skills you'll perfect in school when you'll also know the way the world really works.

"But you're brave enough to do it, even when it hurts. Are you willing to do that, James Potter?"

James hesitated. He had the sense that the Hat somehow knew more than it was telling, that it could see something James couldn't. But its choice was no choice at all, in truth.

"I see," said the Hat, with a strange tone in its voice. If he had to guess, he would have thought it was sorry for him, somehow. "As you wish. Best of luck in…"

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The applause cascaded over James as he took the hat off, and he instinctively looked over at his new house. Remus was standing, hands cupped around his mouth. Near him were the other first-years, all of them cheering, from Sirius, the presumed-Slytherin, to the mousy boy who'd gone into Gryffindor right before him, to the girl from the train, who he could somehow hear cheering above all the others.

He took the hat off, setting it on the stool without a second glance, and hurried down to join his new friends for the first time.

* * *

With all the excitement of the feast, and the speeches, and the food (the roast beef alone!), James didn't get a chance to talk to that girl again until the end of the night. When he sat at the table next to Remus, she had been surrounded by the five other female first-years already named, and since James had turned out to be the last boy called for the house, their numbers only grew as the night went on. So he'd spent the time getting to know the rest of the guys. Sirius and Peter were quiet — a little stunned perhaps — but Jack and Nabin were chatty enough to make up for it, both Londoners dazzled by the mystique of the castle.

After the feast, one of the prefects, Frank Longbottom, had led them up a series of staircases, dizzyingly high. He'd introduced them to a painting called the Fat Lady and told them the first password of the year ("Acromantula") before letting them into the common room, a cozy, warm space draped in red and orange patterns.

James and the other first-year boys had already been beaten to the good, fireside couches by some sixth- and seventh-years, so he and Remus had gathered some cushions from across the room and started a game of exploding snap with an old deck Remus pulled out of his back pocket. Peter and Nabin flanked them on either side, both jumping and devolving into giggles every time a card sparked in the face of one or the other.

"If you think exploding snap is great," James was saying, "you're going to get blown away by wizard's chess."

"Ooh, that sounds wicked," Nabin said. "What's the twist? Dragons instead of bishops? Can the queen kill people without moving?"

"It's not that different, I hear," James said. "Pieces are the same but—"

Remus tapped the last matching pair as James spoke, and his words were cut off by the biggest flashbang yet. James coughed the soot out of his lungs, blinking furiously, until he heard that sharp laugh again. He turned to see the girl shaking her head, walking with some of her new friends toward the girls' dormitory stairs.

"Gotta pay attention," Remus said. It took James a minute to realize he was talking about the cards, not her. "Something tells me you're a bit too distractible to win a game like this."

"Totally," James said, scrabbling to his feet. "Why don't you try a game with Peter or something? I'm gonna take a walk."

He didn't wait to hear Remus's response. He only hurried across the common room, catching up with the girls just before they finished rounding the bend of the stairs.

"Excuse me!" There were four girls on the stairs total, and each seemed to swivel to glare at him in unison. So much for a sympathetic audience.

"Um, you!" He pointed at the redhead, only dimly aware of how rude he was being but pushing ahead anyway. "Can I talk t' you for a second?"

She turned, muttering something to the other girls, who looked back at him even frostier than before. The other three did turn away, though, heading up to the dorm all a-chatter. She came down slowly, stopping on the last step and crossing her arms over her stomach. "Come to apologize, did you?"

That stopped him cold. "Apologize? For what?"

"For being so mean to poor Severus on the train. He didn't do anything to you, or that other boy."

Three or four retorts popped into James' head immediately, but he bit them back.

"Err, yeah… Sorry about that," he said, unconvincingly. "I just came by to introduce myself, formally. I'm James. James Potter." He extended his hand confidently, hoping she bought his little white lie.

She stared at him again a few moments longer, and then slowly took his hand. "Nice to meet you, I guess. I'm Lily Evans."

"Lily," he said, trying the name out. "Nice to meet you. For real, this time. Glad you're in Gryffindor."

"Um…yeah, glad you're here too, I guess. I'm gonna go to bed now — but I'll see you in classes tomorrow."

"Of course," he replied, with a smile. She gave him another odd look, then turned and hurried up the steps, leaving him looking after her.

"Glad you chose to be here," James said, correcting himself under his breath. "Glad it's what we both chose."

Unbidden, a thought floated through his head — old man Ollivander, reminding him a few months prior that wands choose their wizards. Something about Lily Evans made him feel chosen in the very same way.


	2. Misery

Sirius Black knew his mother already knew everything. At the start-of-term feast, he'd seen his cousin Narcissa slink out before dessert, glaring daggers at him. By the next morning at breakfast, she wasn't speaking to him — not unusual for the 16-year-old, per se, but not ideal either.

Back at the Gryffindor table, unhappily digging into his breakfast, he watched the Slytherin table silently. All morning, owls came, and went, dropping off messages of congratulations, treats, I-love-yous. And most of them came with something else, a look up, aimed straight at Sirius, full of pity and contempt.

Pushing his eggs around his plate, Sirius feebly wished that one of the family owls would swoop in for him. Even a Howler would be better than silence.

But nothing came, and in a few moments Nabin nudged him. "Come on, Sirius. We've got to get to Charms. Don't want to be late for our first class!"

The Muggleborn boy was positively glowing with excitement, so Sirius let him have his moment without saying anything. Following him out of the Great Hall, Sirius couldn't help but hear the whispers of every Gryffindor he walked by.

It was going to be a long year.

—

Friday morning came and went the same as Thursday. More letters, none for him. More looks. More whispers.

Nabin was the only one even sort-of speaking to him, and Sirius couldn't risk any more damage to his reputation by making a habit of it. They sat together in Charms again, but as they walked through the halls on the way to Defense Against the Dark Arts, Sirius was looking for an excuse to break away, get some distance.

Suddenly he found it, rounding a corner on the third floor. Seth, Ignatius and Evan, thick as thieves, were cutting in front of them with some other Slytherins, heading down one of the moving staircases.

"Nabin," he said, grabbing the other boy's arm. I've got to do something quick. I'll meet you in class."

"Oh…okay." Nabin looked confused. "Want me to save you a seat?"

"No," Sirius said, feeling a little guilty. "Don't worry about it. I'll talk to you later."

Sirius didn't wait for a response but barreled down the steps. He caught the second-floor landing just in time, right foot almost-but-not-quite missing the last step. The Slytherin boys were still there, walking down the corridor in a pack.

"Seth!"

The boys all stopped and turned, Seth's face twisting as he saw Sirius. "Oh. Black."

"Seth, can we talk?" Sirius could tell he was overstepping, that the social code here was just to slink away and curl up in a corner of the North Tower for the next seven years. But he couldn't do that quite yet.

Seth just sighed. "Boys, give me a minute with the Gryffindor."

"You'll be late for Herbology," Evan hissed, without taking his eyes off Sirius.

"Who cares?" Seth replied. "Just move our stuff in back. I'd rather sit there anyway now that I know Sprout is just gonna be a bore."

Evan took that as dismissal, and he, Ignatius and the others moved along, heading toward an exit further down the corridor.

As Seth approached, Sirius started talking right away. "Look, Seth, what is going on back with our families? I haven't heard anything from mine since the Sorting and I know something's up, I _know_ it. Everyone over by you is looking at me with bloody miserable expressions and I know—"

"Of course we are." Seth was right in front of him now. For the first time, Sirius noted that Seth had grown since the beginning of the summer, an inch or two taller than he. "You're the first Black in decades not to go into Slytherin. The first Black in recorded _history_ to go into Gryffindor. Of course everyone is talking."

"But not to me," Sirius said. He hated the way he sounded: needy, pleading, weak. "I've been frozen out."

"Well, then I guess you should have thought of that possibility when the Sorting Hat was on your head." Seth stepped back, surveying him. "I don't know what was in your mind that put you in Gryffindor, but I know that you're a Slytherin at the core. Or at least I thought I did."

"Seth, I…" Sirius trailed off. If he told Seth what the Sorting Hat had actually said, that would be worse, right?

"I've got to go," Seth said. "My house has Herbology this period. I have no idea where you're supposed to be."

Seth took off without a second glance, briskly heading after Evan and the others. Sirius thought about calling something out, a last word — but he had nothing to say.

He made it back upstairs to Classroom 2K just in time. Their professor wasn't there yet, and most of his…fellow Gryffindors…were already seated. Nabin was at the front of the classroom, with Peter Pettigrew already on one side and Imogen Roberts on the other. So that wasn't going to be a problem.

Instead, Sirius hurried back to the third and final row, sitting in the last seat on the end next to two Gryffindor girls who had their heads in some magazine. One was Helena Quickley, and the other…Maxine? Myra?

Breaking his reverie, an older woman strode in without warning, cutting a striking silhouette. She reminded Sirius of a mountain resort he'd visited with his parents. One moment, sloping curves, as in her hourglass figure or the roundness of her face. But then! — a craggy nose, sharp cheekbones, her one visible, sharply angular ear, with a set of 7 gold rings interlocked at the peak. It was her right ear; the left was completely covered by a complex, clearly magical knot of brown hair on the side of her head, tangled, woven and braided together with a thick crimson thread gnarling its way through the mess.

In the halls, Sirius had seen her walking about in the same robes as other Hogwarts professors wore, but she whipped it off coming into class, exposing flared black trousers, studded black boots that made him envious at the sight of them, and a billowy white dress shirt with a deep blue ribbon tied around her neck. "Robes off!" she barked, tossing her own over the podium at the front of the classroom and pushing it out of the way.

A mutter went through the class. Not a single one of them obeyed her order.

The professor finished moving the podium and turned around, seeming unsurprised. "Yes, the other first-years did the same thing yesterday and then I yelled a bit more and they did what I asked but I _really_ hoped we could skip this part."

She put her hands on her hips, looking out over the room. Then she gave a deep sigh, shaking her head. "All right. Here we go. My name is Professor Brocken. I'll be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts this year.

"Answers for the wizardborns: Yes, I have heard the rumors about this position being jinxed. Yes, Headmaster Dumbledore assured me that they are false. No, I do not believe him. No, I do not know why someone would expend a great deal of effort and magical energies toying with this institution's hiring practices. No, I am not interested in your theories. Yes, you do have to write essays for this class, and I am offended by the question.

"Answers for the Muggleborns: Yes, I made my hair look this fantastic with magic. No, you may not call this class 'dada.' No, I am not going to put a hex on you. No, you will not learn how to put a hex on your least favorite sibling this year. No, I will not make an exception, not even for cousin Mildred. Yes, you do have to write essays for this class, and I am offended by the question.

"You are removing your robes because when you are out in the world, you will not always be enveloped in the safety and comfort of cozy black robes and a classroom setting. That is both a metaphor and a fact. When I graduated from Hogwarts 15 years ago, I immediately entered the Auror training program. In that first year of training, I remember only one time I felt like nothing bad could happen to me. A second later, my instructor hit me from behind with a spell that would have peeled the skin off my back layer by layer, if we weren't using training wands.

"Out in the real world, if you are truly defending yourself against the Dark Arts, punches will not be pulled. If you are not prepared, you will die. Or worse. So we take our robes off in this class, whether we're practicing practical magic or not, as a reminder of that. Any questions?"

A row ahead of Sirius, Jack Lewis raised his hand, ears bright red.

"Yes. Mr…"

"Lewis, Professor." Jack's voice was wavery, and Sirius was starting to suspect something hilarious, if his years of attending one pureblood function after another were any use.

"What is it, Lewis?"

"Um…well…what if we aren't wearing the…best clothes under our robes, Professor?"

The girls next to Sirius started giggling, and the rest of the class started to catch on. Professor Brocken leveled a devastating glare at Jack. "Lewis, you have two choices. Would you like to spend this class in your pants and slippers, or would you like to be my first detention of the year?"

"Detention," he said quickly, causing the immediate wave of laughter to grow even louder.

Professor Brocken shook her head back and forth. "Foolish, boy. You know nothing about me or what I can do to you. Always choose dishonor over the danger of the unknown. Ten points from Gryffindor. Be here tomorrow morning at 6. And get out of my classroom."

The laughter stopped, and Jack went as pale as he'd been red. Scurrying up his books, he shuffled out of the room, leaving an ominous hole in the row he'd left.

Brocken looked back at the remaining 13 students. "Anyone else leave their trousers in Gryffindor Tower?"

Sirius quickly began slipping off the buttons of his robe, only a few moments ahead of his classmates. Thank Merlin he wasn't as uptight as most of his family, who'd have been in a similar situation to poor Jack.

He'd dressed this morning in much the same sort of thing as he'd been expected to wear around Grimmauld Place most of the time — a formerly opulent and ruffled white silk shirt that he'd sliced most of the excess off of with a sloppy Severing Charm. His parents had been furious after he'd done it for the first time, when he was 8 — arguably more for the cheek of it than that he'd practically ruined the shirt. He'd gotten better at it with each shirt they bought him, and by the time they'd given up he had a wardrobe that was…well, the right word was "rock 'n' roll," but he very well couldn't drop a Muggle-ism like that in front of his family.

A cursory glance around the room told him that Jack wasn't alone in his concerns — further up, he could see Peter quivering in a light white shirt and what appeared to be Muggle boxer shorts, and two of the girls were in shifts, including the one on the other side of Helena. Mona?

He did note that the most comfortable students seemed to be the Muggleborns. Lily, the girl he'd briefly encountered on the train to Hogwarts, was in the second row wearing a simple grey sweater and plaid skirt, while one of the girls sitting next to her, Mary MacDonald, was wearing slacks and a jumper. And Nabin was wearing a simple white shirt with short sleeves and a strange small collar — and something else over it. Two thin and shiny black strips of fabric that went over his shoulders…attached to his trousers?

He tried to lean forward in his seat to get a better look at whatever the stripey things were, but Brocken started speaking again. "Excellent. In the future, please plan on dressing…accordingly for class. While there will be many days when we stick to the text, there shall be others in which we move about the room doing spellwork, and I have no plans to tell you which are which. It's a courtesy your adversaries will not show you either."

"Excuse me, Professor?" The girl on the other side of Lily raised her hand suddenly.

"Yes, Miss…"

"Bellicose. Beatrix Bellicose. Professor…not all of us are going to be Aurors, you know? I mean, it's important to _learn_ this stuff, but this is supposed to be just in case, right? We're not going to have 'adversaries' when we graduate."

Brocken nodded sharply, putting her arms behind her back. "You raise an argument, Beatrix, that has been used by opponents of this class for generations. After all, there is nothing you are going to learn this year that could not be covered by my fellow professors. We will learn several jinxes, which are merely defensive charms. We will learn about various malicious magical creatures, which could be added into the History of Magic or Care for Magical Creatures curricula. And you are correct in suggesting that it is not _likely_ that any of you will have an enemy interested in your eradication in the years after you leave this institution.

"But on the off chance you do…would you prefer to be able to put up a fight, or die?"

For the second time that morning, the class was stunned into silence. Brocken's eyes scanned the room, examining the students' responses. "Your first assignment," she finally barked, "is to write an essay defining a purely evil act one might commit without even realizing it. Make it as long or as short as you believe you need. But make it convincing. I won't have any patience for something facetious, or crude, or deliberately shocking. I have better things to do with my time."

In the front row, Remus put up his hand, but Brocken made a cutting gesture with her own. "No questions. Bring it back on Tuesday. We'll discuss it then. Open your books to page 147. The introductory chapter on Dark creatures native to the British Isles. I think, given some of your outfits, today should be a text day."

"What a relief," the girl two seats away from Sirius whispered to her friend. "I've got to tell you, if I knew all the professors here were going to be so…irreverent…I might have given in and let Mummy send me to Beauxbatons. All my cousins are there — I'm the first Pommegel in decades to skip out, and it was a big scandal."

"I thought your last name was Dawlish?" Helena asked.

"Mina!"

The girls both turned to look at Sirius. He realized too late he'd spoken aloud. "Um… sorry…" he whispered. "I'd just, er, forgotten your name."

Both Helena and Mina rolled their eyes and turned back to each other. "Typical," Mina muttered. "Filthy Blacks don't give a damn about any purebloods but themselves."

Helena wasn't as polite. "At least the other ones have the decency to stay in their own house," she said, not even pretending she wasn't talking to Sirius. "What are you doing here, anyway? Your parents finally get enough money to bribe the Sorting Hat, buy themselves a double agent?"

A few days ago, Sirius probably would have handled an affront to him or his family by turning one of those Severing Charms he was so good at on the person speaking — at least just to give them a warning scratch or two. But Mina had a point. He didn't belong here, surrounded by all these Gryffindors, and he was just as unhappy about it as they were — his rage drowned by deeper misery.

So he said nothing. Just bent down, grabbed his copy of _The Dark Forces_ , and pretended like he cared a whit about pixies.

—

By Sunday, he finally broke down and went up to the Owlery himself. He remembered his mother getting an owl of congratulations off to Narcissa within the day when she got into Slytherin five years ago. To not hear from her in half a week was a problem.

He was glad he'd remembered to bring a coat. The top of the West Tower was freezing, even in September, winds gusting through the open windows. Two Ravenclaw students were already there when he arrived: an older boy with a prefect's badge and an embarrassingly thin amount of fair blonde stubble, writing what appeared to be a short essay, and a younger olive-skinned girl with her hair tied back in a ponytail, feeding a small white owl treats.

Diana flew right down to him as he arrived, startling the girl. As well she might. His mother had bought the eagle owl for him after only a cursory observation — she wanted the "firstborn scion of House Black" to have the biggest, most fearsome owl in all of Eeylops.

Pity for her that despite Diana's dark coloring and impressive wingspan — longer than Sirius was tall — she hadn't had a vicious bone in her body. The owl had practically snuggled into his armpit the first time he let her out of her cage, to his delight and his mother's fury.

"Hi there, Di." His owl perched herself on a window ledge, and he pulled some bits of sausage from breakfast out of his pocket. "Your 'ears' are looking lovely today."

She nipped at his fingers as he brushed her ear tufts lightly, then went for the food, snapping it out of his outstretched hand.

"All right, all right, don't choke yourself." He reached into his other pocket for the letter he'd written in his room earlier. "I need you to send this to Mum, okay? It's important. Don't come back until she writes you a reply."

She cackled back at him in reply, nuzzling her face against his left hand.

"Wonderful." He set the letter in her talons, and she took off with a whoosh, flying up and up within the Owlery until she got to the big windows at the top, sailing south toward London.

"Your owl's lovely."

The prefect had finally finished his note and gone, but the girl was still there, looking over curiously at him as she spoke. "I remember my first week here was pretty tough too. My birthday's in August, so I barely got my brain around Hogwarts before my parents had to pack me up and send me here."

Sirius just looked at her sadly as he walked back toward the long, winding stairwell. "You don't know this yet," he said, "but you don't want to be nice to me."

—

After surviving almost a full week of silence, it was a true shock to Sirius when Diana practically dropped into his lap at breakfast the next morning, spilling pumpkin juice all over the four sentences he'd written of his terrible essay for Brocken and helping herself to his meal.

"Whoa," Nabin gasped, sliding away a little. "Your owl is fantastic."

Sirius grabbed for the letter in Diana's talons, completely unconcerned with the soggy parchment. The Black family seal was embossed on the back, in dark green ink. He broke the seal with his thumbnail, but then stopped, thinking.

"You gonna open that?" Nabin asked. "Or… at least clean up?"

"Oh." Sirius stuffed the letter into the pocket of his robes, and scooped what was left of the essay onto his plate. "Sorry about that. I—"

A bell rang, cutting him off. With a coo, Diana took flight again, startling the other Gryffindors around Sirius.

"Great," Nabin said. "Our first double Potions class with the Slytherins. I heard from one of the prefects that Slughorn spoils them rotten, since he's head of house. You think that's true?"

"Guess we'll have to find out," he said. "Come on. It's a long walk to the dungeons."

The two of them fell into formation with the other first-years, who broke away from the older students to descend down into the depths of Hogwarts. Nabin quickly started chatting with the boys around them, but Sirius couldn't bring himself to join in. His mind was stuck on the letter in his pocket. It felt like it was burning in there, burning itself right out into the open.

The potions wing was cold and dark, torchlight scarcely alleviating either. When the Gryffindors found their classroom, the Slytherin students were already there, sitting two by two at tall black tables. Sirius followed Nabin to one of the tables automatically, slumping into the chair behind it.

Professor Slughorn was standing next to the front left table, chatting with the Slytherin students there. Sirius thought he recognized the darker-skinned one as Cole Shafiq, the oldest of six or seven pureblood cousins keeping the family going. The boy next to him was a sandy-haired kid he couldn't place, Irish by the sound of his accent.

"It's so weird," the Irish kid was saying. "My whole life, I think I'm just some nobody who's gonna live an die in Kenmare, and then my ma sets me down the day before my birthday and says we're all wizards."

"Very interesting," said the portly professor, clearly bored. "Cole, you and I should chat more a bit later. I have not had a Shafiq in my classroom in decades, and I am sure there is a great deal to catch up on!"

Cole started to say something, but Slughorn walked away quickly, clapping his hands together as he moved to the front of the room. "All right, all right, settle down everyone. Take your seats and we'll begin."

The last of the Gryffindors quieted down, slipping into remaining seats. "Now, don't get too comfy," Slughorn said. "We're about to pick potions partners for the year, and in my experience _everybody_ always wants to switch once I say that."

Slughorn was right. Just about every kid who had already taken their books out was cramming them back into their bag.

"So, before I give you the whole speech about the marvelous, mystical art of potionmaking, let's do that, eh? If you're not sitting next to someone you trust to put the right ingredients in your cauldron all year, get up and find someone you can work with. Slytherins have an odd number, I believe, so let's keep the group of three in their house. I'll give you a minute or two to get settled."

A few tables down, Lily's hand shot up. "Professor Slughorn? Do we have to be partners with someone in our house?"

The question seemed to shake Slughorn out of his routine, and he gave Lily a strange look. "Unusual question for a Gryffindor. What's your name, dear?"

"Evans, sir. Lily Evans."

"Well. I gave up forcing my classes to mingle a decade ago after a talented young lad tricked his partner into taste-testing a Shrinking Solution. But I suppose times could have changed. Open season, everyone! Surprise me like Miss Evans."

Slughorn clapped his hands, and about half of the room sprang into motion. Lily was the only student who seemed to be taking her own advice, practically dashing across the classroom to slide in next to the greasy Slytherin she'd been fighting with on the train.

Sirius decided to take a gamble and join her, springing out of his chair heedless of Nabin's protestations. He saw Seth, Ignatius and Evan clustering together, and cut in before they could start pulling the extra chair over. "Hey, guys," he said. "Let me pair up with one of you."

Avery just looked blankly at him, as Seth and Evan shared a glance. "Look, Sirius," Seth started, "there needs to be a group of three. Why don't you just pair up with—"

"Mate, bugger off." Evan practically spat the words out, Sirius shrinking away in surprise. "Can't you bloody get it?"

"…What?" Sirius could hear the room quieting, noticing the spat. He felt his whole body going numb.

Seth nudged Evan slightly. "Seriously, Ev, we talked about this."

"I don't care. I'm tired of him just sniffling around us like a little mouse." Evan stepped away from the others, right up in Sirius's face. "Why don't you get back on the other side of the room and sit with some Mudblood, you filthy blood traitor?"

Sirius's wand was out before he knew it, aimed straight at Evan's heart. The other boy pushed him back before Sirius could jinx him, though, laying him out on the floor. Sirius scrambled to his feet, instinctively counting the seconds before Evan could pick up his own wand from the table behind him and—

"Boys, boys, boys!"

Slughorn was there between them, an arm outstretched on either side. "Let's not make me take house points away on the first day, all right? Everybody go back to their own side of the classroom and save the experimenting for in your cauldrons."

Their professor stepped back, and Sirius reluctantly put away his wand. Evan looked as if he wanted to spit in his face, but took a sidelong look at Slughorn and thought better of it, moving to stand next to Seth and Ignatius.

"That means you too, Miss Evans," Slughorn said, looking sadly at Lily. "Although don't think I won't still be paying attention to your work. Why don't you and your rowdy little friend pair up for the time being?"

The smile slipped off the greaseball's face, and Lily patted his shoulder gently before packing up her things again and moving to the last open table on the Gryffindor side. Sirius joined her a moment later, greeted by a fierce scowl that didn't go away for the entire two hours remaining in the class.

By the time Slughorn was done bragging about his potionmaking prowess and taught them the basics of working their cauldrons, Sirius had started to develop a single feeling again. Anger, crimson and screaming. At Evan, and Seth, and Lily, and Nabin, and Slughorn, and his mother, and himself.

He practically tore the envelope in half ripping it out of his pocket, veering away from the departing, chatty Gryffindors as soon as they climbed out of the dungeon and cutting down a random hallway. He walked until he'd lost track of exactly where he was, and then leaned against the wall and sank down to the floor.

There was no point in waiting any longer. He took the note the rest of the way out of the envelope. His mother's entire correspondence was written in her slanted handwriting on one side of a card, smaller than his hand.

 _Sirius,_

 _Don't be foolish. Of course we received word of your Sorting. Do not mistake silence for ignorance. Or approval._

 _We will inform you later this term whether or not you should return home for the holidays._

Sirius boiled over. He didn't remember crumpling the letter in his hand, but he was crushing it tighter and tighter now, as sobs wracked his body. Each one made him angrier. Each reminded him that he was too weak. That he was alone.

The shuffling of boots down the hall caught his ears, and he jerked his head up to see a group of teenagers actively ignoring the sound of his crying. As they laughed and joked together, Sirius could see enough bits of house pride on their robes to recognize them as Gryffindors.

"Fellow" Gryffindors.

—

"Essays to the front," Brocken barked. Sirius handed his, a single page, ahead to Nabin. The Muggleborn boy took it without a word. They hadn't spoken since Potions yesterday.

Sirius couldn't blame him, he supposed. In less than a week at Hogwarts, he'd managed to earn the hatred of just about every Slytherin and Gryffindor in his year. Nabin had been just about the only hold-out.

"Thank you," Brocken said, taking the essays out of Remus's hand. Most were much longer than Sirius's, curling scrolls that dipped close to touching the floor. Their professor stepped back, closer to the podium. "All right. Let's see what you all thought."

She started reading wordlessly, her eyes flickering back and forth across the page. Around Sirius, the first-years began whispering to each other, confused.

"Beatrix Bellicose. Better than expected, given that you introduced the topic so clumsily. But once you have children I think you'll understand that some harms are necessary to allow, and at the very least, not 'evil." You fail."

The whispers grew silent, and Beatrix gasped aloud. Brocken took her paper and placed it on the podium face-down, then began reading the next one, halfway to the ground. "James Potter. You've got an excellent grasp of the potential implications of the butterfly effect. But despite how karmically satisfying it might seem, it is unfair to blame one person for the actions of another five or ten links down a chain of cause and effect. You fail."

The muttering started again, and James spoke up. "Wait, what? Professor Brocken, you can't grade our papers in class without reading them."

"I am reading them, Mr. Potter. Not in full and not in private, but I promised neither. Kiran Qasid. I specifically said nothing facetious. Fail." She put Kiran's down, ignoring the girl's sudden tears, and looked quickly at the next page, the longest scroll of the bunch. "Daisy Mandel. Same problem. Fail."

The next page was Sirius's. He could see the tattered edge where he had torn off the pumpkin juice-stained portion. Brocken read more of his than anyone's yet, while the whole room rippled with anxiety and sniffles.

Finally, she looked up, staring directly at him. "Sirius Black. I must correct you on just one point. 'Ignoring the pain of another' is not always something people do without realizing it. It is often something they do purposefully, because they have not yet felt enough pain in their lives to sympathize with another sufferer. But it is no less cruel and evil for that. You pass."

A feeling curled upward from deep in Sirius's gut that he hadn't felt since arriving in Hogwarts. Pride.

"Thank you, Professor," he heard himself saying. Most of the class was looking at him, surprised. He noticed James in particular had a strange expression on his face.

"Thank _you_ , Mr. Black. I'd suspected none of you would have been able to write something so poignant in your first week." She looked back at the papers a moment, not moving Sirius's to the pile on the podium. Then she vanished them with a pop, brushing her hands together in front of her. "Perhaps you're right, Mr. Potter. I'll read the rest of these later and return them with notes.

"Until then: Wands out. Let's take a page out of Mr. Black's book and learn how to get someone's attention."

They spent the rest of the class period learning to shoot sparks out of their wand, red and green. Sirius could only get one of the colors to work.


	3. Anna (Go to Him)

Peter Pettigrew had been waiting for Ringo for three days, and he was starting to worry that something might have eaten him.

Objectively, he knew that owls were predators, not prey, and owls raised by wizards were smarter than the rest of their kin, but he couldn't make the feeling go away. He'd mailed his letter to his mum the night he arrived at Hogwarts, for god's sake. He'd felt a little guilty about slipping away to the Owlery while everyone was celebrating… but the prefects weren't on duty yet and it wasn't like he really knew anyone here and what was the point of having asked his father for every detail he could think of about Hogwarts if he wasn't going to use it right away?

(Okay, he'd gotten lost almost right away and if it wasn't for the help of the giant groundskeeper who'd taken them over the lake he probably would have starved to death and turned into another Hogwarts ghost but at least Hagrid had promised not to tell anyone he'd snuck out.)

But since he'd sent the letter during the feast there was no reason it shouldn't be there by dinner on Saturday. His family lived in London — a day's flight for the average owl. And Ringo was fast. Even if his father had sent him as late as lunch today, he should have been back by now.

Well, maybe not. But it was certainly nice to think so.

"Stop worrying about your letter."

Remus Lupin was probably the only friend Peter had at Hogwarts.

(Unless all of his dormmates counted as friends, but they definitely didn't since James had already tried to jinx him for dropping a Gelatinous Shrub on his feet in Herbology and everyone else seemed to pretend like he didn't exist)

So it was upsetting that he was getting more and more irritable as each day went on. Peter couldn't figure out if it was something he was doing, or something Remus was eating — he was only picking at his food, tonight.

"I'm sorry," Peter replied. "It's just a letter from my parents. I'd thought I would have gotten it right away."

"I get it," Remus said, eyes focused intently on his roast. "But it's probably just a problem with the owl post or something. It happens all the time."

"Not really," James butted in from beside Remus.

Remus fixed him with a sharp glare. "Piss off, James."

(Somehow Remus was friends with both Peter and James, and Peter couldn't figure it out because neither Peter nor James liked each other and you'd think Remus would have to pick sides, but at least it was nice to have Remus keeping James from getting him with something really nasty like a Leg-Locker on the stairs.)

James wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Did the house-elves burn your dinner? What's got you in a snit?"

"Nothing," Remus muttered. "I've got…a family thing happening. I might have to leave the castle this weekend."

"Already?" Peter asked. That was weird. He hadn't thought students left Hogwarts for anything other than emergencies during the year, especially not in the first week.

"I can't talk about it," Remus said quickly. "I think I'm gonna cut out early. Work on some History of Magic homework in case I … I have to go. Want to make sure I get it done by class on Monday."

"Why don't you just tear pages out of your book and turn that in?" James said. "Binns hardly notices if any of us are even in class. He's hardly going to give our assignments a close read."

But Remus was already swinging his legs over the side of the bench, and then he was gone, leaving James and Peter almost across from each other with Gryffindors chattering all around them.

"Seriously, what's wrong with him?" James looked like he was pained just talking to Peter.

"I don't think I know any more than you," Peter replied slowly. "He spent all day in the library today. This is the first time I've seen him since last night."

"He and I walked down to breakfast together," James said. "He ate four or five pieces of bacon before I got through one, and then got weird when I congratulated him about it."

(Wait are we friends even when Remus is gone now?)

"I'm sorry about Herbology, by the way," Peter blurted out. "I didn't mean to knock the Shrub off the table."

It was the wrong thing to say. "Thanks for the reminder, Pete." James' tone was ice. "Maybe I should follow Remus's lead and catch up on some work."

"Geez, James, I just—"

"Forget it, mate," James said, gathering up his stuff. "I'll catch you later."

That just left Peter, alone, waiting for his mysteriously missing owl.

* * *

There were still a few hours before curfew, so Peter found himself wandering the halls, looking for a sufficiently distant and abandoned room. Under his arm, he carried a heavy rectangular parcel, unopened.

His father had given it to him before he got on the Hogwarts Express, admonishing him not to open it in front of his fellow classmates if possible. "It's not against the rules, per se…" he'd intimated, "but I'm guessing it'll make you a bit of a target. No one there's going to have anything quite like it, and I think the Muggleborns especially will be jealous."

That was just like his dad. He was good at knowing which rules were bendable. He'd gotten the family tickets to every Quidditch World Cup as far back as Peter could remember, thanks to some creative asking of favors, and he was always making side deals with the wizards he worked with in the Department of International Magical Cooperation to get the best imports whenever they left town.

That was how he'd ended up with the best record collection out of any of his friends back home, Muggle or fellow wizard. His parents were big believers in blending in with your environment, so even though Peter'd gotten the traditional wizard home-schooling—

(The strange odor of Mrs. Blaeksprut's lunchtime hunter's pot would never leave his memories, most like.)

—he'd also been instructed to keep pace with the latest Muggle trends, at least until he got to Hogwarts.

So every month or so his father would come back with a new Muggle record. Something good too — the Muggles on his block always seemed to complain that their parents were hopelessly out of touch, and his father did a good impression of that for the neighborhood. But then Peter would come downstairs and his father would have the new Stones album, or the Who, or Hendrix, or the Kinks. For special occasions, like his birthday or Christmas, it might even be something imported. Last year, his dad had gotten him the new Led Zeppelin album, a full two weeks before it came out in Britain.

He'd left it back at home, along with just about all his records. Magical interference already played hell with the speakers in London; at Hogwarts, his dad said, anything electrical was all but worthless. There hadn't been much of that when he was in school, right after the war, but he had heard enough stories of Muggleborns in the '50s and '60s finding out their prized transistor radio was just going to have to go back in the owl post to know better.

Peter hadn't seen anyone in minutes, not even prefects, so there was probably going to be a good space to open his gift somewhere around here. He shied away from a set of double doors guarded by imposing suits of armor and instead scurried down a narrow side corridor.

There were no doors down the short hall, oddly, and Peter would have turned back right away were it not for the glimmer he saw through the archway up ahead. The points of a large iron gate loomed menacingly over the entrance, but as Peter got closer he could see that they were heavily rusted over — this gate hadn't been closed in years, if not decades.

He stepped across the threshold into a room full of trophies and plaques, crammed into cabinets and cases with little concern for decorum. In the moonlight, he could see a thick layer of dust across most of the crystal cabinets, untouched.

This was the place, he thought. No one had come this way in ages, no one was going to come by tonight, and—

One of the cabinets tipped over with an almighty crash that only almost drowned out Peter's screech of terror. He nearly dropped his present on the ground as he backed into another trophy case, eyes darting about the room to see what had caused it.

"Oooh, little firstie's a screamer." A impish figure with shining white skin materialized in front of Peter, hovering about five feet up with its legs crossed. "I'll have to keep an eye out for you."

"I'm not a screamer," Peter stammered. "I just screamed."

"Well, they say actions speak louder than words. But that was a pretty loud scream so I guess it goes screams then actions then words." The creature slid over to a small table, not moving its body in the slightest, and pushed a large bronze cup onto the floor with a clatter.

"Y-you must be Peeves. The poltergeist." He was too solid (and rude!) to be any of the other Hogwarts ghosts, most of which had been at the feast anyway. Peter had heard Beatrix Bellicose saying that she'd heard Peeves had been absent because he was mucking up the plumbing in the Hufflepuff bathrooms. But it didn't feel like a good idea to ask him that.

"The one and only." Peeves untucked his legs, doing a little bow. He looked about the room in mock surprise. "My, you've made quite the mess in here."

"That was you!" Peter was not proud of the way his voice squeaked.

"That's not what the prefects I hear running are going to think." Peeves grabbed another cabinet by its top edge, and pointed his finger accusingly at Peter. "A thousand points from Gryffindor!"

He vanished in an instant, and then the other cabinet came down too, glass shattering in every direction. Peter flinched back, and then realized he actually could hear footsteps and shouting coming from the other entrance to the room.

All thoughts of opening his present abandoned, he ran back out the archway. If he could get down the hall before the prefects made it through the room and saw him, maybe he could hide in the room with the suits of armor (even though it was scary) and wait until —

He nearly ran into a portrait of Headmaster Basil Fronsac, who was sternly leaning forward in his chair to glare at him. "Boy," the portrait shouted, "you'd better have a good explanation for all that noise. I was just planning to catch up on some reading."

Pete nearly collapsed from fright. He was in a totally different hallway, extending to the left and right away from the Trophy Room. He turned back around to see the same archway and rusted gate, but now at the end of a very short hallway, with tall windows exposed to the moonlight.

"It moved," he gasped. "The room moved."

"Well of course," Fronsac said. "The Trophy Room usually likes a couple hours on the sixth floor every few days. Too bad you're missing it, actually, there's a rather nice fresco of the founders of Hogwarts when it's away."

Peter would deal with processing all of that later.

(although the fresco did sound nice)

For now, he, Basil Fronsac, the Trophy Room and at least two outraged prefects were all in the same place, and he needed to change that. He picked the left hall at random and set off running, his feet slamming against the stones much more loudly than he wished they would. At the first fork, he hung a right, then a left. But he could still hear feet behind him.

Peter took a corner and realized he was stuck. He hadn't realized he was running down the Charms corridor, but that was where he found himself, looking at three doors he knew only led to classrooms and a taller one that would open onto the stairs to Professor O'Brien's private office. And going back wasn't an option. Those prefects would be here in a moment, and with them…detention, at minimum.

But then—

Something about the wall caught the corner of his eye, and he looked over at it more closely. There was only one classroom on the right side of the corridor, further down. But in between him and that door, there was a patch of wall that was different. He sensed something about it — something he had gotten used to ignoring in a castle full of enchanted objects. Magic.

Without even taking the time to think about it, Peter ran straight into the wall.

* * *

When Peter was 9, his parents had gotten in the habit of inviting over the Muggles next door over on weekends for a drink or two after dinner. It was an alarming break from routine, at first. His father had been known to have drinks with coworkers at the pub, and his mother had always been friendly with the other women on their block, but to invite people into the house was a daring choice. It was one, Peter sensed, that even they didn't fully understand their reasoning for.

Because before the Davises came over, Peter's mother would spend the afternoon rushing about the house, tucking away any and all signs of wizardry. Every scrap of paper from the Ministry was sent into his father's office. Each of Peter's toys needed to be locked securely in its chest. Every moving photograph over the mantlepiece needed to be frozen in place, like the photos in a Muggle paper.

But when all that was done, it seemed a relief for both his parents to have the grown-up company — especially his mother. Peter had been growing to notice a strange restlessness to her in recent months. More and more often, he'd come home from Mrs. Blaeksprut's to find his mum still out of the house for the day. She was always apologetic when she returned, apparating back into the flat with a muffled bang. But only to him. A distance seemed to have grown between her and his father, and he'd even heard some of her witch girlfriends mention offhandedly that it seemed as though she wasn't around much.

Those weekend nights were an exception. When his parents were hosting the Davises, his mother was as vivacious as he could remember her ever being. He usually was up in his room while the neighbors were over. Sam and Libby didn't have any kids, though they were nice enough to him for grownups, but every once in a while he would stay downstairs with a glass of cream soda to listen in, if his mother said it was okay.

One January night in particular, Peter happened to linger a bit longer, half awake as his parents and the Davises wrapped up a game of whist.

Sam was scoring, jotting figures down on a scrap of paper. "All right, that's six tricks for me and Libby, seven for you and Anna…looks like you've come out on top this week, Arthur!"

"Well, that's a nice surprise." Peter's father didn't like losing, but he and Peter's mother were used to it with the Davises. Whist wasn't truly a wizarding game and they were terribly bad at it. "Congratulations, dear."

"Yes, and good game to you two as well," Peter's mother replied, grinning. Peter was glad to see her so happy, almost glowing as she picked up the cards from the table and shuffled them together.

"Well, Sam, I think we should duck out and let Arthur and Anna enjoy the rest of their evening," Libby said. "Peter here looks like he's about to fall asleep at the table."

Peter defiantly sat as far upright as he could manage. "Nope! I'm fine. You guys can play another game if you want!"

But a yawn betrayed him a moment later, his jaw opening wide against his wishes, setting off giggles for both the Davises and his parents.

"Perhaps a cup of tea first?" Peter's mother stood up from the table, already moving into the kitchen. "Something to give you fortitude for the walk home."

"Oh, yes, such a long walk over the hedges," Sam said, giving Peter's father a look.

Libby slapped Sam's hand lightly, sliding over to sit beside him. "Hush, you. Anna, we'd love one. Just one; Sam doesn't deserve a cup."

Peter's mum laughed at that too, an unseen chime from the kitchen around the corner. "Oh, Libby, you're too hard on him. Once you've gotten a bit past two years' marriage you'll have a much different sense of when to actually put your husband in the doghouse."

"Uh oh," Peter's father said, nudging him with his elbow. "That doesn't sound good for me." He and Sam laughed at that, though Libby gave his father an odd look.

A moment later, the tea kettle gave a familiar whistle, cut off quickly as his mother began to fill the pot. She came around the corner then, with one of the family's tea sets arranged simply on a tray.

His mother's collection of teapots and cups was a particular point of pride, cultivated by her mother's side of the family for generations. All enchanted, of course, and full of wizarding regalia — this one appeared to have the McPhail family crest, commemorating his great-somethingth-grandfather's appointment as Minister for Magic. Not that the Davises would have known that.

"I think you'll enjoy this particular tea," Peter's mother said, gingerly setting the tray in the middle of the table. "Someone at work recommended it to Arthur. From the East, right dear?"

Peter didn't hear his father's response. There was something about the tea set he was noticing for the first time. It was like he could see it — but then there was something else on top of what he was seeing. Something invisible yet tangible. Two things, actually, layered on top of each other. And they felt…wobbly. Like they were fighting each other.

Without thinking about what he was doing, Peter made them stop fighting.

Even after Sam and Libby started screaming, it took him a moment for him to realize what he'd done. The teacups and saucers had floated straight to the four of them, and the teapot was rising to join them, bouncing from one cup to the next as if nothing was happening.

In a panic, Libby swept her teacup to the ground. It bounced with a clang, obstinately refusing to shatter, and flew back into her hand, causing her to scream again and fall out of her chair. Sam got up to help her, but suddenly the sugar bowl was in his face, and he feebly tried to bat it out of the way.

"Immobulus!"

Peter hadn't even seen his father reach under the table for his wand, but he was holding it now, slowly bringing his right arm down to his side. Everything in the room but the Pettigrews had frozen in place.

(And the eyes of the Davises, rocking back and forth with panic, frantically looking for an escape that wasn't coming.)

His mother collapsed in an armchair, nervously laughing and crying at once. It was the only sound in the room.

"Anna. Take Peter upstairs," his father said finally. "I'll take care of this."

With a flick of his father's wand, the tea set began to reassemble itself into an orderly arrangement on the table. Peter's mother came around, shaking, and led him up to his room without a word. Peter knew better than to look back. But behind him, he heard his father say a single word, a spell he'd never heard: "Obliviate."

The Davises never came around again.

* * *

To his great happiness, Peter did not bounce off the wall to lie in a bloody heap. Instead, he tumbled through it, half-somersaulting along an area rug into the hidden chamber beyond.

As he lay there on his back, scarcely believing his luck, he realized the sound of the prefects' feet had stopped. Confused, he gingerly sat up, getting a better look at his surroundings.

The room he'd inadvertently discovered was haphazardly filled with a half-dozen chairs and couches, loosely arranged in a semi-circle further in. The stone walls matched those of the Charms corridor outside, though quaint candelabras burned at regular intervals. In one corner, a triangular bookshelf seemed to have been built perfectly into the wall, rows of books moving towards each other at a right angle before stopping with just enough space for sculpted metal flowers on each shelf.

He turned around to see the hall from which he'd entered, though his view of it seemed slightly obscured. It was almost as though there was a gelatinous film over the entryway, sealing him in safely.

The prefects who had been chasing him were actually there now, looking confused. One was a Gryffindor prefect, Frank Longbottom; he didn't know the Hufflepuff girl. Through the entry, he could see Frank's lips moving, but hear nothing.

Before he could stop himself, Peter clapped his hands together three times, loudly. The prefects didn't even blink.

(So the wall keeps the noise out there from getting in here but it also keeps the noise in here from getting out there.)

As he watched, Frank and the other prefect began arguing, the Hufflepuff pointing toward the other end of the hallway. Peter couldn't follow most of the conversation, but he caught the name "O'Brien."

(Perhaps deciding if waking O'Brien is worth it?)

The Hufflepuff seemed to win, stalking past Longbottom with a determined look on her face. Peter watched his house's prefect sulk a moment — at one point, even glaring straight into the wall on accident! — and then walk after her, wand out.

Peter collapsed back into a puddle on the ground. His lucky gift had paid off this time. He'd beaten a pair of prefects at their own game.

He realized suddenly that he was laughing to himself, a little manically, and forced himself to hold it all in. He took a deep breath, then another.

And then Peter turned his attention to the parcel he'd almost forgotten. In spite of everything, it still was mostly intact, save a bit of wrapping torn off at the corner. He used that tear to open the parcel all the way, revealing a simple brown box and a letter attached to it with string, which he quickly pulled away and unfolded.

Peter,

Bit of an early birthday present for you. Next time you and I disagree about something, you should trust an old man's advice. You'd have some extra records to enjoy.

Secrecy is, of course, the name of the game with this little gift. One truly isn't supposed to fool around with Muggle artefacts like this. And I had to do some truly fantastic bargaining to get you the German version with real stereo. But you're my son. You deserve the best.

Dad

Hope and surprise fluttered in Peter's chest. He practically shredded the box getting it open.

Within was a stripped-down turntable — just the base, the platter, the arm off to the side. He could see a record sleeve peeking out from underneath, but he didn't need it to know what album was already loaded and ready to go. His dad had gotten him the double EP for Christmas once and always threatened to give him the American version with the extra songs but the lousy mix but this was the real thing — a stereo mix of the Beatles' Magical Mystery Tour.

A collector's dream, and Peter was more than a collector. That the Beatles were his favorite band did not make him unique — it was a fact he probably shared with every Muggleborn student in this school, and some of the halfbloods too, most like. But he'd been listening to the Fab Four since he was a child, his father having just about all of their early LPs and EPs thanks to his job in the Ministry.

(Among some of the Muggle merchants his father dealt with, the right Beatles album could be better than gold.)

Magical Mystery Tour was the only album he hadn't loved.

Okay, that wasn't fair. He'd listened to the whole thing a hundred times, maybe, and every time he said to his father, "It's not enough Beatles!"

And every time, his father had laughed at that. "There's never enough for you," he said once. "You probably think the White Album was half as long as it should have been."

"Sort of," Peter replied, crossing his arms in the living room. That only set his father off laughing harder.

That wasn't long after the incident with the Davises. His parents had never spoken to Peter about that night, but as he and his father listened to "I Am the Walrus" for the 18th time, alone in the flat, his father finally said, "Tell me what happened over tea this January."

Peter flushed instantly, all thoughts of Eggman vanishing from his mind. "I-I…I don't know."

"You do," his father said, running a finger around the edge of his brandy glass. "Don't hide behind false uncertainties. We both know better."

(Oh god.)

"I saw…not saw…I could feel something about the tea set," Peter said. "I knew it was originally enchanted, and I knew you or Mum had charmed it so that it wouldn't move while the Davises were here. But if I hadn't known it I probably still could have guessed it. Looking at it…I could just tell. That's the only way I know how to explain it."

His father sat there silently, studying Peter.

(I'm a freak. Even for wizards. A freak.)

"That's very unique," he said finally, speaking slowly, word by word. "I will be honest with you, Peter. I've never experienced anything like that. I don't know a single person who's admitted to having that ability either. But I assure you: If you are able to cultivate this lucky little gift, you will grow to benefit immensely from it."

"So…you aren't angry?"

His father made a face Peter couldn't quite comprehend. "Oh, Peter. No. I'm not angry about the Davises. One day, you will learn not to be worried about the Davises of the world either.

"But—" His father leaned in close, looking him right in the eyes. "I think you know not to mention what happened that night to any of your friends. Yes?"

Peter didn't say anything, afraid to give the wrong answer.

"I acted as I did to take care of his family," his father continued. "But there are many within the Ministry — both in my department and elsewhere — who would consider the action I took inappropriate. And they would have caused us innumerable problems. So I need you to understand that the Davises must be a secret. As must your gift."

"Of course," Peter finally muttered, breaking eye contact with his father as he spoke.

It apparently satisfied him. "Good."

Silence hung in the air a moment more, John Lennon's voice long since having stopped as the turntable arm reached the center of the record. Then Peter's father got up, picking the second EP up off the endtable. "Let's skip to the end, shall we? I'm in a bit of a "Blue Jay Way" mood."

And that was that. The first and last time they'd ever talked about it. But Magical Mystery Tour still made him think of the Davises, and that night. Peter wondered if his parents ever thought about popping back over the hedge, to their house next door, and trying to get them to come over for one more cup of tea anyway, despite everything.

He shook the thoughts out of his head. He was in a secret, soundproof room, with the better — no, best — version of a Beatles album. And, if his father wasn't playing a trick on him, the only working record player in Hogwarts.

Peter lifted the arm of the turntable, holding it over the black vinyl and familiar green apple in the center. A small crank on the side of the turntable began turning of its own accord, and the record started to spin slowly around and around. So he put the needle down.

Warm, resonant and in perfect stereo, a perfect Beatles harmony burst into life all around him.

* * *

The sharp, dissonant wail of the Hogwarts Express whistle was the first thing Peter heard as he walked through the wall at Platform 9 3/4. All around him, children and parents were bustling about, both groups' chatter sounding like a bundle of nerves and excitement. Peter could only sympathize with half of that. His stomach was zigging this way and that like a Golden Snitch.

"It's so huge," Peter said as they walked along the platform. His father laughed and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"That it is," he said. "You'll get used to it. After a few years, this'll just seem like an awfully long-winded way of getting to school. I always thought Portkeys might have been a cleverer idea, but people do love their traditions."

"I always liked the Hogwarts Express," Peter's mother said. "It was nice to have a couple of hours alone with your thoughts before a new school year, I thought."

There was a strange waver in her voice — had been all day. Before they flooed into Diagon Alley, he'd even come upstairs to ask if she knew where his trainers were and found her crying alone in their room. She hadn't shown a sign of it when she came downstairs later, but Peter had been keeping an eye on her all day, just in case.

"Arthur!" A brusque man's voice turned Peter's head. An older man he didn't know in a boxy black suit and foot-tall top hat was walking toward the three of them, sticking his hand out toward Peter's father.

"Phineas!" His father stepped away, eagerly clasping the man's hand. "What are you doing here? I thought all of your sons were out of Hogwarts."

"Oh, no, Jasper still has one year left. Doesn't want anything to do with me, of course — he's already on the train with his friends. Thought I might stick around and see if I could catch you — figured you'd be here with…"

"Peter," his father said, ushering him forward. "Peter, this is my boss at the Ministry. Phineas Steele."

"Nice to meet you," Peter said, bashfully keeping his hands at his side.

"And you know Anna, of course."

Peter's mother took a step forward, nodding her head slightly. "Phineas. Good to see you again."

"Of course," Phineas said, tipping his hat so low it looked like he might drop it on accident. "Do you have a moment before you put your son on the good old Hogwarts Express, Arthur?"

"Certainly," he replied. "Peter — I know you're eager to get off to Hogwarts, but don't get on that train until I get back, all right? I've got a present for you before you go."

Somehow, Peter had never felt less eager to go anywhere.

His father walked off with Phineas, whispering back and forth with the older wizard, and Peter turned back to look at his mother. "Mum…I don't want to go. I'm not ready. All these kids are gonna be better than me. I'm not even good at doing magic on accident."

Somehow, that made his mum look like she was going to cry again. But instead, she walked over and crouched down in front of him, her face right in front of his. "Listen to me, Peter. This is a big, big day for you. And it's okay to be afraid when big moments like this happen."

"But—"

"But…" She cut Peter off with her own interjection before he could get more than a word in. "I know you. And I know that you are ready for this. Even—especially if it doesn't feel like you are ready.

"You're going to get on that train today, and go up to that castle, and get sorted into your house. And it's going to be the most important moment for you. It's going to set you on a path that you can't even imagine yet."

His mother was crying again, a pair of tears trickling down her face. "It's going to be an amazing moment for you. I'm going to be so proud. And nothing that happens to you…nothing bad that happens to you…nothing should take that away, okay? You just have to know that I am alwaysgoing to be proud of you. My little glow worm."

Peter blushed. "Mummm."

Without taking the hint, she leaned forward and put her arms tightly around him. "I know, I'm sorry. I just…I'm going to miss you, Peter."

"Mum, come on," Peter said, wriggling in her grasp. "You're gonna embarrass me."

"Alright," she said, standing back up and wiping her face. "I'm sorry. I remember what it was like to be where you're standing, with my parents fussing over me practically all the way up to the train. My first year at Hogwarts wasn't so long ago, you know."

"I guess," Peter said. "I just don't even know what house I want to be in. I don't feel like any of them are me. I'm not smart enough to be a Ravenclaw like Dad. I'm not determined and strong enough to be a Slytherin like you."

"Peter, you don't have to fit perfectly into your house on the first day." His mum gave a hint of a smile. "I certainly didn't. I was terrified my first few weeks at school — our common room was all the way down in the dungeons, and there were so many illustrious families. The Minister for Magic's son was Head Boy, even! But I grew into it. And you will too. No matter which house you end up in."

"Sorry about that." Peter's father came up behind them, Phineas nowhere to be seen. "Awfully rude of Phineas to ambush me like that, I think, but we did get some nice things worked out. Everyone ready to put Ringo and the luggage on the train?"

"Yes," his mother said, pushing a thick strand of blonde hair out of her eyes. "I think we're all ready to go."

After everything was settled and he'd said his goodbyes and gotten settled in a carriage full of chatty first-years, Peter turned to look out the window at his parents. They were standing a bit apart, his father cheerily waving and his mother just looking with her arms folded across her waist. She might have been crying again, just a little. But it didn't look like the same crying as before. Not at all.

* * *

By the time Peter woke up the next morning, the sun was blazing in through the curtains of his bed. Rubbing his eyes, he reached blindly toward his nightstand until he found his alarm clock, pulling it closer. 11:46. He'd definitely missed breakfast.

(No wonder, considering you were out in your secret cubbyhole until 12 in the morning.)

It seemed he was the only boy left in the dorm when he finally rolled all the way out of bed, so he showered and dressed quickly, heading down to the Great Hall. The hall was about half full when he arrived, many of the students popping in a moment to sweep an armful of food off a table and then head toward the courtyard.

At the Gryffindor table, Remus was absent again, but James, Jack, and Daisy were there, chatting animatedly about something he couldn't hear. Next to Jack, a small owl with ruffled feathers was picking at a plate as if it hadn't eaten in days.

"Ringo!" Peter hurried over to his messenger owl, sitting down right in front of him without saying hi to his fellow first-years.

"Hi to you too," James said drily. "What's a Ringo?"

Daisy yelped, causing the other first-years and some kids further down to whip their heads toward her in surprise. "Gosh," she finally said. "That's the saddest thing I've heard a wizard say since I got here."

"Was there a letter with him?" Peter asked. He was looking around the table, but couldn't see one.

"Here," Jack said, pulling it out from his pocket. "Your 'Ringo' was fluttering around in such a panic when it got here that it almost knocked a goblet of pumpkin juice on the letter. Figured I'd drop it upstairs when I went back to the common room in a bit."

"Where were you last night, anyway?" James said. "We were up chatting in the common room until way past curfew and never saw you get in."

"Um, out." He took the letter from Jack and got up from the table, Ringo flying away as he did.

"Wait, aren't you eating?" James said. "You just got here. We're not going to laugh at you for getting a letter from your mum."

"Eating, sure." Peter reached over and took a meat pie off the table with his bare hands, noshing on it as he scurried back down the length of the Great Hall, ignoring Jack and James's shouts from behind him.

He stopped at the top of one of the smaller staircases off the hall, sitting on a bench in an alcove. Finishing the last bite of his pie, he flipped his thumb under the envelope's seal. Maybe whatever his parents had written him would explain why Ringo had been gone so long.

Dearest Peter,

You must have written this letter right away — I didn't expect to hear from you so soon. I hope by now your uncertainties about ending up in Gryffindor have faded. The Sorting Hat doesn't make its decisions lightly, and I know if it chose Gryffindor for you instead of Slytherin it must have known that was the best place for you.

I do not know if you will have heard from your father yet. I am keeping Ringo here for a day to rest, but nonetheless I suspect not. He is too proud, and, I assume, too angry.

I am not in London, Peter. Nor am I with your father. After you left our home, I left it too, as soon as I was able.

This will be a shock. I know. It breaks my heart to break yours. But for years now, living with your father has been… difficult. Not in any way you would have seen, or known. We are both very good liars, your father and I. It's truth we have trouble with.

I cannot tell you those truths, not yet. It is not safe, for me or for you, to talk about them. But you must never fear for your safety from your father. For all his flaws, for all the things about him that have finally driven me to this bold, final act — he has worked very, very hard to ensure none of his actions will ever touch you. If I believed he was incapable of securing that, I would have endured another seven years of life with him to protect you.

I know that in leaving, I may give up all my rights as your mother. Your father will surely tell you that I left because I didn't love you both anymore, but that is not true. A part of me loves him still, despite everything, and my whole heart shall forever love you. But I must leave you both regardless.

I hope you shall forgive me enough to write; I shall not again until I know it will not further hurt you. I have not yet decided exactly where we are going, but I do not travel alone. There is a man — a Muggle, unbelievably enough — who has enough faith and trust in me to leave his homeland too and embark with me to the Continent, and wherever else our journey takes us. One day I think I should like you to meet him.

Oh, Peter. I wish I could have truly said goodbye. And I hope this goodbye is not the last for us.

Shine bright, my little glow worm.


End file.
